Reasons to Relocate
by kasugai gummie
Summary: [Slight MusaHiru] Hiruma has enough firepower to rival hell. But he's running out of closet space.


**Disclaimer**: Eyeshield 21 is the brain child of Inagaki Riichirou and Murata Yuusuke. This is a work of (very badly written) fiction.

**Warnings**: Vulgarity courtesy of Hiruma, technical references to many weapons, pathetic title, slight but existing MusaHiru innuendo, lack of redeeming story factors (read: plot and dialogue are teh non-existent), very experimental with characterization, disjointed prose, bad stuff to piss off all.

**Author's Notes**: Just recently got reeled into the ES21 fandom despite my inherent disinterest towards football. With Hiruma as the bait however, I got sucked in, hook-line-and-sinker. This was originally intended to be a character piece, gen if you will, and a stupid excuse for me to laud on the trigger-happy psycho's gun collection ... but my pimper demanded that I compensate her with MusaHiru. Thus the many references to Musashi. There are subtle, intended hints scattered all over the place if you look hard enough. Please keep in mind though, that this was started as a drabble to help me get a better grasp on Hiruma's character, but somehow ballooned out of control like a pumped-up Kurita. THERE IS NO POINT TO THIS FIC. Other than Hiruma.

Please leave constructive criticism if anything seriously horrifies you.

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**Reasons to Relocate**  
by kasugai gummie

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It was a habit now, another tradition incorporated into his grand scheme of things ever since his sub-arsenal of machine guns finally caught up to (and surpassed) his collection of shotguns. He was fifteen then, armed with and had access to more information than he had any right to—information that he had used to extort his first M260 70mm rocket launcher out of the district's American military presence.

A feral grin accompanied the kick that almost knocked the door to his bedroom off its hinges. Hiruma strode in, never missing a beat as he smoothly sidestepped the neat little stack of landmines he received only two days ago from a "connection" in Germany (a shady, fucking pants-pisser who was only _too_ willing to release the explosives into the custody of an underage and psychotic Japanese who somehow knew a little _too_ much about his sordid affair with his wife's step-sister's first cousin, twice removed).

The fang-baring smile faded into a pissed frown, however, when Hiruma paused to survey the interior of his room over the sugarless bubble coming out of his mouth.

He unslung the hefty bag from his shoulder and tossed the load across the room where it smacked and spilled open against the far wall with a cold clamor of metal, spare parts, and yards of ammunition. Looking at the level-two biohazard area his room had become... was that a fucking dust bunny making off with his A to M hair samples? Hiruma blew another bubble as he shot the abnormal organism with negligent ease.

Fucking lower life forms. Looked like he was going to have to relocate the two warheads again.

That he didn't live in his flat often enough to maintain a regular state of habitability made the collection of radioactive shit and stuff inevitable. But that didn't excuse him from inventorying his personal arsenal (and cleaning the rest of the place while he was at it) every now and then. Though he might prefer otherwise at times, Hiruma could still recall with disgusting clarity the first time he felt compelled to organize his room: it was also the first time he was over fifteen minutes late to practice after all. Having a teary-eyed Kurita, followed by a slightly amused Musashi, manage to track down his location wasn't something he wanted to happen ever again. The fuckers. Just because he hadn't been able to salvage his football gear from out under a collapsed pile of bazookas and anti-tank weaponry in time didn't call for the fucking fat ass to drag the other fucker over. Thus, the recent tradition of making sure there was some sort of renewed order to the usually heavy and dangerous objects that would litter his room, if only to avoid a repeat incidence of giving more people a sorry excuse to discover his residency through some freak chance of nature.

Kicking the abused door close behind him, Hiruma made quick mental notes of where the various butts and barrels that were either concealed or jutting out before making his way around the cluttered room. First he grabbed a dirty rag and a canister of maintenance oil from where they lay between the remnants of yesterday's Son-Son takeout and a homemade grape-canister bomb. The bomb he rolled towards the jumbled mess of weapons that had spilled out from where he'd tossed his bag; the leftovers he tossed out the window, almost as an afterthought. The sounds of a giant maw ravaging at the rice, meat and tempura drifted up almost immediately.

Half-listening to the steady sounds of canine mastication, Hiruma continued to gather the bits and pieces of his scattered arsenal together. Revolver #5 he found jutting halfway out from between the wall and his filing cabinets of blackmail material; Grenade launcher #2 fell out when he knocked over Shotgun #12. The most surprising discovery however, would have what he spotted hiding beneath Musashi's undershirt, which was in turn under his desk. Wasn't that the axe he used when he first began the practice of spontaneously unleashing of Cerberus on unsuspecting suckers? He had wondered where'd it went. The ice-axe he'd been using lately just wasn't the same. Picking his way through stacks of Gun Monthly and Amefuto Daily, Hiruma went to retrieve the single non-projectile/non-explosive/non-mass produced item of considerable destruction, removing less antiquated weapons as he went along.

The massive double-headed battleaxe was a comfortable weight in one hand as Hiruma contemplated it. To keep or to toss out the window for Cerberus' pleasure? He could shoot through heavy-link chains with equal efficiency as destroying them with the axe nowadays but... despite the lack of a trigger, he couldn't quite bring himself to abandon the old-fashioned melee weapon.

_When_ and fucking _why_ had all his weapons suddenly evolved into memorabilia with histories attached? For example, the fucking hunk of metal—he threw the axe with a disgusted sigh into the pile awaiting his later attention—had to remind him of the the time some brave, brave soul once remarked on how he spoiled "the doggy" too much.

Hiruma sneered at the memory, not even needing the Extortion Booklet to reference that incredibly stupid fucker: Mitoru Hajime, third year to his first in Junior High, a self-important jackass who still peed in his bed at fifteen years of age and was dyslexic to boot. Oh, yes. Hiruma remembered that incident. He remembered, in particular, how Musashi and Kurita both wore expressions of varying surprise when his own face didn't so much change expression (though his teeth practically hummed with irritation). The fact that he didn't automatically rip out a magazine's worth of bullet-sized bodily orifices from the fucking little busybody must have confused them even more, Hiruma reminisced as he kicked a half-buried AK-47 from under a heap of mixed laundry to join the growing pile against the far wall.

On hindsight, however, Hiruma supposed that there was _some_ sense to be found in the fucker's unnecessary analysis. If possessed by anything remotely saint-like or equally holy, he could probably be persuaded to admit to some sort of insane pride for the slavering hound. Thank god he was a secretive- manipulative bastard though; what was done was done, and after failing to escape the mauling of said doggy unleashed, there really wasn't much left in the dick-head's brain to compensate for anyway.

The search-and-kick method of organizing the scattered arsenal continued for a moment longer before there seemed to be no more stray pieces and sentient dust bunnies. After a while he finally stopped in front of his walk-in closet and slammed open the sliding door to reveal the racks, upon racks of illicit firearms within. Then, seating himself cross-legged and comfortable, he began to attend to the jumbled pile by his side.

He polished, reloaded, and racked the smaller firearms first, then the shotguns. The semi-automatics were hung up onto the specialized racks next to the drawers where he stashed his handguns. Tasers went into the left cabinet drawer; hand grenades into the right. As for the empty spot between the two drawers he placed, with a manic grin touched with questionable fondness, the buy-two-get-one-free value pack of mace.

Practiced and efficient, Hiruma went through the motions in a startling little amount of time until there was only the larger equipment and bombs left. Those he simply shoved into a designated corner labeled for immediate future use (the mines he'd plant on the field for the two fucking midgets' training regime tomorrow, he decided).

A quick glance at the clock above his desk told him that he only had an hour left before the fucking fat-ass went crying to the fucking manager who would seek out the fucking old man for his new residential location; he had sixty minutes to try and shove a fucking light artillery into what pathetic space remained in his closet. Hiruma eyed the remaining bit with no little resigned annoyance. Before the addition of the weekly shipments of fireworks and landmines, he only needed to do an inventory once a month. But now, taking into consideration the sheer number and rate at which hazardous equipment poured into this room, it would seem best if he upped the ante to twice a month—especially after the last time Musashi had followed him home before even he had a chance to clear the floor. In the resulting events of that time, they'd almost razed the entire building down to the foundations when a stray limb (they never did quite agree on whose leg/arm/-censored- it was) flung against the trigger mechanism of an equally stray flamethrower.

The fireman geezer he called in to deal with the problem hadn't been very happy.

Balancing the last rocket launcher to rest vertically against the uppermost racks of firearms, Hiruma clambered to his feet and stepped back to inspect his handiwork. Somehow he had managed to arrange the remaining weapons in a space-conserving array, but he was definitely running out of closet space. It was his collection of portable artillery that took up the most space, Hiruma concluded, and it wouldn't be long until the amount of shit he had overwhelmed his residency. Running long-boned fingers through the shorter hairs at the back of his head, Hiruma continued to analyze the problem with slant, narrowed eyes.

His arsenal was very important to him and his methods of motivational terrorization, but having to tend to them so often was a sure and steady degeneration into a pain-in-the-ass. He would make the fucking manager deal with them if only they were stashed anywhere but his _bedroom_. The old man was already one person too many in terms of those who set foot into his house and left alive.

Hiruma worried the forever-present piece of gum in his mouth as he went through his options. He could always "talk" to his landlord about this is issue of space—but that still didn't solve the problem of him getting a relatively trustworthy somebody else to look after it. Therefore the only other reasonable plan would be to relocate the majority of his arsenal altogether.

The bubble popped and a sudden toothy grin stretched across Hiruma's face as the perfect solution struck. Sliding the closet door shut with a slam, the pointy-eared terror of Deimon High consulted the clock once again. Half an hour left till practice.

Hiruma cackled. More than enough time for his favorite mode of operations.

Grabbing his much lighter bag and cell phone (the principal's number already speed-dialing), Hiruma strode out back to where the world was his playground and the people his target practice. They'd just won their game against the Amino Cyborgs hadn't they? It looked as if another expansion of the Devil Bat's offices was due.

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**Fin  
Completed**: 11/24/05


End file.
